


On Standby 'Til Christmas

by NothingSerious



Series: Birds of a Feather [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Communication via text messages, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Explicit Language, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Harry is an amazing woman, Mention of medical appliances, Mild Language, Ms Hudson's wisdom, Shouting and Yelling, not nice to mary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-22 23:43:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7458253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingSerious/pseuds/NothingSerious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Could do with your service. Call me. Shezza</em> reads the text Bill receives. It would be wise to ignore it.</p><p> But he's never been notably wise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cloak and Dagger

**Author's Note:**

> How can it be that Sherlock Holmes trusts a complete stranger with his life?  
> After my first exploration of the idea behind Sherlock's homeless network, I stumbled over Bill. The following story is my take on his background.
> 
>  
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I don't like Mary. She's not appearing in that fic actively (no dialogue) but every mention of her is of negative nature. Please be aware of that.

A buzz in his back pocket startles him. He stops in his tracks and waits for the buzzing to continue.

It doesn’t. Just a text, then.

Anyway - bollocks.

The night has been long, and he deserves his breakfast, but - as always - he fights with his curiosity. One day it’s going to cost him his life.

He puts his fish and chips on top of a postbox close by, rubs the grease from his fingers and pulls the phone from his pocket. A seagull sits on a post a couple of feet away and eyes his food.

“Don’t you dare, mate.”

The text comes from an unknown number.

His eyebrows meet his hairline. Tough bugger! He smiles despite the complications the message could bring.

_Could do with your service. Call me. Shezza_

He pockets the phone and grabs his food, throws a chip at the seagull.

The clever creature snatches it and sets off. _Yeah, your life is easy_ , he thinks. This needs some thought, and he’s always bad at thinking on an empty stomach.

***

He buys a new pay as you go phone and dials the number. Two can play this game.

"Yes," comes the snappy answer after a few rings.

"Shezza! Man, it's good to hear your voice. I'm glad that my very own prominent customer is still with us."

"Billy. A new number, I see." The voice is clear, cold and educated. No more pretending on his side. All right. This is going to be interesting. What could Sherlock Holmes - the living nightmare of coppers and crooks - possibly want from someone like him?

"Yeah, you know the drill, don't you. How's the food?" he says, stretching the words and feigning nonchalance.

A huff. "Disgusting. But I didn't want you to call me to chitchat."

"No? Aww, man, that hurts. Well then. What can I do for you? Didn't the doctors give you enough to keep you floating for the next weeks?"

A chuckle. Well rehearsed for effect. Yep, definitely interesting.

"You should know that patients with a record do require a different approach regarding pain medication, shouldn't you? Or didn't they tell you this during your training, _officer_?"

"Ouch." Bill grins nevertheless. Good thinking to buy a new phone. But he scolds himself for his curiosity anyway. He should have ignored the text. Dammit. "No damage done to the brain cells. I'm ever so glad," he says and changes his own voice and tone.

"Yeah, you know, experience. So. Help. I really need you and your talents."

"Don’t you have the little doctor-fellow for such things?"

"Normally, yes, but I need him to stay out of the picture this time. It's necessary."

"Huhm, I see."

He vividly remembers the scene in the lab: the angry man, the weird wife with her frankly appalling first-aid-knowledge, the raging lab-technician with the swift hands. There was more tension in the room than in the UN conference room during the Cold War.

He considers what he knows about Sherlock Holmes and his work, his involvement and prowess to make a mess of things.

He takes a deep breath. "I’m going to regret this big time but- whatever you need, it cannot compromise my cover, all right?"

"It shouldn't if handled cleverly. In fact, it could prove even more of an asset to keep it intact."

"OK, then. What do you need?"

***

The shopping is easy enough. A projector and an old netbook from a second hand electronics shop, another new pay as you go phone with headset, the perfume from a chemist’s. Holmes is a man for dramatics. But a pretty game of hide and seek with a touch of cloak and dagger is nice for a change after weeks on standby.

Bill borrows an unmarked van from the police car pool. Stealing one would make too much noise in this case. This way, if Traffic notices the car, they would identify it as one of theirs and leave it at that. It's a bit like flying under the radar in no-man's land. Getting Holmes out of the hospital unseen and without much hassle is going to be more difficult.

He parks the van near the delivery entrance. He wears scrubs under a blue work coat. No time to waste on a search for this at the hospital. After discarding the coat in the nearest bin, he snatches a vacant wheelchair and strides nonchalantly through the corridors. Arriving in Holmes’ room, he goes straight to work on the machines to disconnect Holmes with fast precision.

"You've done this before," Holmes remarks.

"Yeah."

"Job?"

"Look, Holmes, if you don't ask, I don't need to lie, all right? Just take it as given. Same goes for you: tell me only the things I need to know."

Holmes sniffs. "Fine by me."

"Thought so."

He dresses Holmes in his dressing gown and a woollen cap he pulls from his pocket to hide Holmes’ mop of black curls, and plants him carefully into the wheelchair, attaching the drip to the pole. He checks the eyes of Holmes and feels his pulse. "How are you holding up? Comfortable?"

"Yeah, yeah, let's go, we don't have time to waste."

With a mumbled, "Your wish is my command," Bill pushes the wheelchair out of the room.

Keeping their heads down to avoid the CCTV they sneak back to the van Bill has perfectly parked close to the ramp: with a quick and forceful push Holmes ends up in the back, safely secured to the bottom with tension belts. Holmes nods approvingly.

"Yeah. I know. I'm good." Bill slams the door close and swings himself behind the steering wheel. "So. Where to?" he asks through the partition.

"I have access to a lovely hideout in Bayswater. It should do nicely."

"All right."

"Did you have any problems at Baker Street?"

"No. The lady of the house had left for a quick chat next door. But boy, that chair! It's huge!"

"Yeah, sorry about that. But it's important. Did you place everything where I told you?"

"Yeah, I did."

"Good."

Arriving at the scene, Holmes opens the door to an enigma.

"Well, isn't this something."

"Yeah, I think so, too. It should do nicely."

“Do you let this gem a as humble abode for travelling crooks?”

“Of course. And right after I’ve confirmed the reservation I call Interpol.”

“I knew it, catching criminals isn’t as complicated as they want us to believe.”

“They?”

Bill points his index finger upwards. Holmes rolls with his eyes.

“And here I thought you’re cleverer than the rest of your profession. You’re at least a very good actor.”

Bill cackles loudly and Holmes curls his mouth into a one-sided smirk. He checks the lighting along a corridor.

“Bring the wheelchair,” he tells Bill.

Bill leans against the wall and looks at Holmes. He waits.

“Please,” Holmes adds with an exaggerated sigh before he continues his inspection.

Bill grins. “With pleasure, darling,” he says and leaves the house. 

When he returns, he listens to Holmes shouting at various people on the phone.

"Philip, Philip, shut up for a second, will you!? - Philip, listen - Oh I can't believe I'm going to say this - Philip, I need your help..."

Whoever this Philip is, he must be hugely difficult and chicken-hearted, considering the coaxing and flattering Holmes has to do. It's like watching one of these videos they show you during your training. This here is a fine example of how to communicate with confused members of the public.

Bill parks the van across the street, props up the projector on a mountain of blankets on the driver's seat, and then watches through the passenger side window as Holmes fiddles around with the laptop and the projector.

The whole set-up - it can't possibly be just an open-air show only to prove how clever Holmes is.

"All right, Holmes, I said no details, but why this?" He waves at the projector, the house.

Holmes huffs a laugh. "For fun?" But then he shakes his head and becomes serious, leans back in the passenger seat and rests his head against the headrest. He looks tired. Exhausted. And not just because of his injury. He takes a deep breath and turns his head to look at Bill.

"You have seen the wife, haven't you? Did she come across to you as suspicious?"

The wife.

Holmes means the blonde arrogant woman - cold as a fish in a freezer.

He shrugs. "A bit grumpy. Bitchy even. I suppose not everyone enjoys their morning spent in labs dressed in their pj's."

"She was the one who shot me," Holmes says and waits for an appropriate reaction on Bill's face.

All right, Bill puts a bit more effort into his surprise.

"Did she! Blimey! All right. I see," he says with exaggerated, high-pitched voice. "Straight forward could indeed prove a bit zealous when dealing with a gun-wielding wife, I understand."

Holmes knows that he acted the first bit and smirks. But then his face falters, as if a sudden realisation has hit him.

"He needs to see it for himself," he says and turns his face back to the windscreen. "It is such a crude situation. I can't just tell him. She has to do it. And to convince her to do that we need a bit of drama." He emphasises the last bit with a small, weak wave of his hand. 

Bill looks at him and nods. He reaches over and checks Holmes’ pulse. It's absolutely irresponsible of him to allow this, but then - his sense of responsibility had always been a bit skewed.

"All right," he says, "break a leg," bangs on the roof of the van and leaves to wait in position at the corner.


	2. A Cordial Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _New assignment. For details, call this number._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Nowadays, everything has to happen via phone. Bill is not so sure if he likes that trend.

Bloody paperwork.

Stupid bureaucracy.

Fucking dresscode.

That's exactly the reason why Bill works undercover. He meets his handler, tells them all they need to know, and they write the report, have to be punctual and wear suits.

He finishes his last form and adds it to the file as his phone rings.

Look at that.

"Do you need to escape the National Health Services again? Come on; it can't be that bad. They do their best!"

"Ha ha, hilarious. No. I just read the paper and saw that your endeavour against drug-related crime came to an abrupt end."

"Yeah. Funny thing that. Years worth of work funded by the taxpayer came to a sudden if very successful conclusion when someone called in with a great tip-off. What a wonderful surprise it was." Bill leans back in the chair and winces as his tie gets stuck between him and the table and pulls at his neck. He leans back forwards.

"It's the outcome that counts, is it not?"

"Yeah, I suppose so. But I can't wait for the next assignment. Suits don't suit me," he says and tugs at the knot and his collar. He desperately needs new shirts. His old ones are too small now. He opens the topmost button, but it’s not much relief. He gives up.

A weak laugh on the other end as if Holmes has watched his struggle. "Nevertheless, congratulations."

"Thanks. It was a joined effort."

"Hm. When are you leaving?"

Leaving? What? The office? London? Not important.

"Why, do you already miss me?" Bill replies with a smirk and draws circles on the notepad.

"Immensely," Holmes deadpans at the other end, but Bill laughs regardless. "Your work ethics impress me. I like them," Holmes adds, voice sincere but flattering. It works.

"Oh? How come? Does the tiny warrior give you too much opposition?"

The silence from Holmes speaks volumes. Bill leans his head in his other hand and scratches his forehead. He waits. But the reply doesn't come. His intuition tells him what to do.

"All right. Let me finish here, and I'll come over. Need anything?"

"No, but thanks for asking."

"You're welcome," he says and ends the call.

When Bill's leaving the station, the desk sergeant calls him back.

"You're needed higher up."

Bill groans. Higher up means to talk to his bosses, to leave the city in this instant, that a new assignment awaits.

But no, not this time. The secretary to the chief super just gives him a heavy brown, padded envelope and wishes him a good day with one eyebrow raised. Yes, he knows he looks ridiculous dressed like this, but honestly, her boss doesn't make a better figure in his uniform either. Just to spite her, he considers opening the envelope on the dot but then - he doesn't know what's in it, and he supposes she doesn't either, so why make their lives unnecessarily complicated.

He waits until he's sitting in his car in the car park before he opens the envelope and checks its contents.

It's a smartphone.

He frowns.

It looks like one of those sold on every high street for a couple of hundred quid - shiny, stylish, expensive.

He switches it on, and a picture of Her Majesty as wallpaper greets him. He snorts. What the fuck?

The phone logs into the network and a text message arrives.

_New assignment. For details, call this number._

He sighs. Has procedure changed so much over the years? Can't they just come and talk to him? Everyone is so paranoid these days. He sighs again and dials the number.

"Good day, Sergeant," says a voice on the other end.

Female.

Mid-thirties.

The voice is soft and melodic. He traces the car insignia on the steering wheel with his thumbnail.

"Good day to you, too, Ms... Or is it _ma'am_?"

She laughs, pleasantly so. "No, not _ma'am._ My name is Theodora."

Now it's Bill's turn to laugh. "Theodora? Really? Are you more a Theo-kind of girl or do people call you Dora?"

"I wouldn't know. No-one lived long enough to dare to shorten my name," she says levelly without any trace of sarcasm or humour.

Blimey! Bill’s eyebrows rise. "Oh good, I’ll try to keep that in mind, then," he says. He gives his next question a brighter tone. "But tell me, Theodora, what is my new assignment?" There’s no need to delay that question.

"It came to our attention that Sherlock Holmes has taken a liking to you."

All brightness vanishes. He stops short. What an odd choice of words. Careful now, that could really end up nasty. This man’s like a bad penny.

"Oh? How so?" Bill presses his index finger along the collar of his shirt. Yes, it was indeed a shiver that ghosted over his skin not seconds ago. The guy is like a bad penny.

"Let's just say that we keep a very close eye on him. He has a certain talent to provoke and arouse people's anger and interest, and it seems necessary that we know his movements and intentions as soon as possible." Her voice is soft but confident. She's not used to shouting. Bill suspects she doesn't need to.

A colleague in uniform passes his car, looks at him, greets him cheerfully. Bill waves back, forces himself to smile.

"So you want me to spy on him," he says and huffs.

"Precisely."

"What on earth has he done?" Bill asks. Besides being an antagonising little shit with an uncanny approach to engaging people and the preference for excessive endeavours.

Theodora snorts. "You do read the papers, don't you?!"

He lets out a mocking gasp. "What? On duty? Theodora!"

"Well then," she chuckles, "consider it your homework.”

"All right. But you do know that he's not one of your usual suspects. He's clever. He'll know that I'm following someone's orders."

She huffs indignantly. "We're aware. But he came to you, voluntarily, although he knew that you're working undercover and contacted you again today. He'll think that you've been assigned to a new project you're not at liberty to talk about. He won't get suspicious when you're hiding something from him. On the contrary, he'll expect it."

"That all seems very plausible. Do tell me more." Bill doesn't even try to hide the sarcasm in his tone.

But Theodora decides to look past that.

"All contact will only happen via this phone. Do not under any circumstances call this number through a different phone, say payphone et cetera. I'll never call. I'll send you a text or an email. There's only one contact saved, and it's mine. You must not use the phone to contact anyone else. Keep the phone hidden and the ringtone off. If necessary, you can call and text me 24/7."

"What about meetings? I suppose you're my new handler now. Normally I get to know them, build trust-"

"You must understand that any involvement with Sherlock Holmes leads to a new level of security. We will not meet in person, all contact happens via call, text or emails which must be deleted instantly after reading. It's for your safety, Sherlock Holmes' and mine. Do you understand?" Theodora's tone is rigorous and leaves no room for argument. But he tries nevertheless.

"Whoa, I didn't sign up for the Secret Intelligence Service, woman. I'm just a copper."

"You _were_ just a copper. You lost that status on that morning when you got into the car of Dr Watson," she states matter-of-factly.

Bill lets his head fall against the headrest. He knew it was a bad idea to do that. But he had to know what the great Sherlock Holmes was doing in his crack den. Never trust coincidences, that's what he has learnt over the years and what served him well. How was he supposed to know that it was this time indeed a coincidence? Sometimes you do everything right and lose nevertheless. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries not to think about how she knows about how he met Holmes or that he helped him to scarper from the hospital. Then a thought strikes him. The tip-off--they wouldn’t, would they? Whoever _they_ are.

"Am I allowed to refuse?" he asks tentatively.

A bit impatient she says, "Of course. We're living in a democracy after all." The way she says it - earnest with a tinge of irony - Bill's not sure if she believes it herself. With a softer voice, she continues. "But I urge you not to. It's too important. There is no-one else who could do the job. Figuratively as well as literally."

Ah. She plays the duty card. He was wondering when it would appear. Now he's really worried about what he's getting into when she puts her bets on his honour and conscientiousness. She could have just told him that it's his job, but instead she appeals to his instincts and strokes his ego. The legend of _Queen and Country_. Do some people really fall for that?

"Lady, you know how to sell a story. I was so close to believing you've chosen me for my competence." He tries for a lighter, snappier tone and hears paper rustling on the other end.

"Well, your CV is rather remarkable." He can hear her smile. She accepts the shift in tone gladly. She knows that he's figured her out. She's testing him.

"I would say we can call ourselves very lucky that it was you who worked on the job that day," she says flirtatiously.

Bill considers this, her flirting. She doesn't try hard enough. But that's exactly what makes it so intriguing. Flattering and sweet talk is a waste of time, and they both know it. It's just a tool they both use to get what they need, to soothe the waves. Maybe he could work with her after all? It would at least be a nice change to his last handler who was as dim as a low watt light bulb and a humourless tosser. And what will his next assignment be if he says no? Some other job in Birmingham? Or Leeds? It's not that his last one was fun, either. Holmes is an interesting character, and the job seems simple enough. So sod it.

"OK, I accept. What do I have to do?"

“For a start, only to keep your appointment with Sherlock Holmes. Try to find a way to stay close to him. Anything else we're going to decide as it follows."

"We?"

"Of course, we. You and me. What did you think?"

"Not much, to be honest."

"Well, I think we're a good match, then," she says and laughs.

Yeah, definitely a nice change.

***

When he arrives at Holmes' ward, a severe looking guy guards the door.

He was told that Holmes is now accommodated like every other patient in one of the multi-bed rooms, despite his status as a private patient. He supposes it's the way someone shows their disdain for Holmes leaving the hospital in such clandestine way the first time.

"Sherlock Holmes awaits me," he says. The guard simply nods.

Look at that. The guy's not here to secure the way in but more to secure the way out. Bill hides a smirk which soon enough slides from his face when he looks at the sick people in the room. Nope, hospitals look better from the outside, may the nurses and doctors be lovely as they surely all are.

Holmes greets him first with surprise and then with a shit-eating grin.

"When you said suits don't suit you, I thought you meant it as a euphemism, a joke. But no, you were dead serious!"

"Sure, mock the poor copper. Not everyone has the funds to buy on Savile Row."

Holmes' waves his hand dismissively. "It has nothing to do with where you buy if the fit is right. But suits are definitely not your style."

"Please, tell that to my bosses. They insist on formal attire," Bill says and loosens his tie, crams it into his pocket.

"So, no new assignment, yet?"

"Still in negotiations."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That's supposed to mean that I have an idea what the next job entails but the details are still unclear." Bill drags a chair next to Holmes' bed and sits down. He nods at Holmes' hands. "I thought they'd tie you to the bed."

Holmes looks down at his hands. They are long and thin, and he flexes them as if he needs them to stay flexible and warm. Bill has seen colleagues from the firearms unit doing similar exercises before an operation. But it’s highly unlikely that Holmes prepares his hands for shooting. It seems more plausible that Holmes is simply nervous.

"Oh, believe me, they were tempted. But the doctors and nurses were against it."

"I hope you're nice to them in return."

Holmes' clears his throat. "Well, I try not to complicate the situation."

Bill grins. "Tell me. Why am I here?"

"I wanted to thank you."

Bill watches Holmes. He could have done that on the phone. So there's more to it. Bill considers telling him that he'd enjoyed that little game. But Holmes seems like a guy who would grab your arm if you hold out your little finger. So he sticks to a small shrug and a smile.

"What are your plans now?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I think the whole situation isn't solved as yet, is it?"

Holmes lowers his gaze, he fiddles with his IV. Bill feels the urge to tell him off for it, but he keeps his mouth shut. He waits. He’s expected to see Watson here. Especially since the whole show was only for him. Admittedly, he could have just nipped out for a coffee, but Holmes’ behaviour tells him that’s not the case. What’s wrong with these two? Holmes takes a breath. "No. Not solved as yet. Can't do much from the hospital."

Bill leans back in his chair and weaves his fingers behind his head. That's the opportunity Theodora has hoped for. He should be glad that’s so easy.

But Bill’s never been an opportunist, it’s just right that he feels a bit bad when he says, "Until I don't know the specifics, I have a bit of time on my hand." He sniffs to give his statement more nonchalance than appropriate. "So if you need someone on the outside..."

Holmes looks up with narrowed eyes. Assessing. Bill tries to keep his face as blank as possible and looks Holmes directly in the eyes. A little twitch in the corner of Holmes' mouth tells him that he's succeeded. Theodora will be pleased.

"I would appreciate your help immensely."

***

_All right, he’s accepted my help._

_Splendid. You’ll soon find some files for you to read on the phone._

_You weren’t kidding about homework, were you?_

_Not this time, no._

***

So far, helping Holmes is simple. He doesn't need much, considering how demanding he’d been on their first day. Mostly it's boring research in newspaper archives. Holmes wants a list of all people involved in public scandals over the last three years. That alone fills two weeks of compiling. Bill sits with Holmes' laptop in front of him on Holmes’ bed and fills spreadsheets with data and details Holmes dictates him. They time their sessions around Watson’s visits. Holmes isn’t fit for a fight and who’s Bill to argue with a convalescent?

When Bill asks him why Holmes needs to know all this gossip, Holmes asks him in return, "What do you know about Charles Augustus Magnussen?"

Bill looks up from the keyboard. "Not much," he replies. "But it's not a fact that can't be changed."

Holmes smiles crookedly and goes back to work.

***

Bill sends a text to Theodora from the bathroom.

_His target is Magnussen._

The reply comes seconds later.

_As feared._

_Why am I here when you already know?_

_Your qualities as a typist are unmeasurable._

Pfagh!

Bill's thumb hovers over the middle-finger emoji. He's not used to surveillance directed at him. Which nurse is it? The sassy Marjory or the lovely Beth? Or the cute Thomas who’s frightened of Holmes? Doesn’t matter. The response might be a bit drastic - all things considered. He has a different idea.

_What colour are my pants?_

_Now you're being petty and ridiculous._

Yep, that he is. Bill grins and pockets the phone.

***

_Spending so much time with Holmes could be dangerous._

_What? Isn’t it what you’ve wanted?_

_Yes, of course. But think of your cover. It needs to be convincing._

_What cover? There's no cover! It's just unadulterated me. Anyway, he thinks I work at night._

_Oh that's clever of you._

_No. Just reasonable and conclusive._

_Learn to take a compliment._

_Yes, ma'am._

A smiley showing teeth and a thumb down is her reply.

Theodora has just entered the next level of communication. Bill rubs his hands gleefully.

***

To make Theodora happy, Bill has found something useful for him to do. Unfortunately, Theodora isn’t fond of his pastime.

_Volunteering in a homeless shelter is impossible. You could be recognised._

_By whom for heaven's sake?_

_Former clients?_

_That's pretty prejudiced of you. You said I must appear busy._

_Yes, but that’s not what I had in mind. Find a different hobby._

_Holmes is my hobby._

_He's not. He's your job!_

_I have a proper job. Or did that change since I last checked?_

_Keep being so difficult and I can arrange that._

_Why so snippy? Did someone in the office steal your digestives?_

_Ey, I get that you get bored but try to keep a low profile!_

_My profile is so low I’m already walking underground! Besides - I need some kind of a social life._

_And what am I? Talk to me and find something less conspicuous, less public. Painting. Reading. Or how about knitting?_

_You fucking got to be shitting me!_

_Why not? Seriously, I could do with a new scarf,_ is her reply, along with a row of smiley’s with heart-eyes and tongue showing.

Bill snorts. He shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. Yes, Theodora is by far better than his former handler - her sense of humour comes close to his own. This time, it’s him who sends the toothy smiley and the thumb down.

Two days later he sends her a picture of his first attempts. He chose soft wool in mossy green.

 _Looks very good. I like it_ , is her reply.

Two hours later, he receives a picture with a following text, _That's mine._

She raised the bar--of course, she did--by using three colours: blue, red and white.

_How patriotic of you. Lizzy will be proud._

_Bollocks. These are the colours of Rangers FC!_

The - what? But another text arrives.

_How about a competition? We knit until this is over and the one with the longest scarf wins._

_Challenge accepted,_ he types back.

***

_Can you recommend anything good to read?_

_Georgette Heyer. Anthony Trollope._

_Not my genre._

_Do you need more action? Try the classics like Le Carré, Forsyth or Brown._

_No thank you. I have that every day in the office. How about something funny?_

_Pratchett? If I need a laugh, I read the House of Commons Hansard._

_You’re kidding!_

_Not this time, no._

As if Bill would ever kid about good literature.

***

_I admit, the Hansard is quite entertaining._

_See? And these are the people who decide about our lives._

_They wish._

_What?_

_Oops. Gotta dash…_

_So funny._

_Right? I’m a cracker._

_Yep. Such a delight._

Theodora replies with a wide grinning emoji and Bill briefly reconsiders his life choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rangers FC is a football club in Glasgow.
> 
> The Hansard is - please allow me to quote - "a substantially verbatim report of what is said in Parliament. Members’ words are recorded and then edited to remove repetitions and obvious mistakes, albeit without taking away from the meaning." It is indeed quite entertaining. Find it here: https://hansard.parliament.uk/


	3. Team Building - A Beginner’s Guide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill knows how to manoeuvre around difficult people. 
> 
> But sometimes, even he has to face a new challenge.

It has all started with a normal conversation.

Strategic planning.

What happens next.

Holmes came home from the hospital a week ago, and now they are huddled around the table in the lounge - Holmes, Watson and Bill - with heaves of files and newspaper clippings around them. All assumed cases of Magnussen's blackmailing business. Holmes wanted to know how Magnussen's mind works. How he targets people and why. What he gains from them. How he benefits from their despair. Bill was able to find former employees of Magnussen and interviewed them. One of them worked for one of Magnussen's newspapers and now teaches journalism at a college in Ireland.

"My editor came to me, threw the material on my desk and told me to write the story. That's it. _Just write it. Don't ask stupid questions,_ he said. That's not what I understand of journalism, and to be honest, that bar wasn’t high to begin with. And it wasn't important stuff, just the usual personal drama - affairs, petty thefts, accusations of rape based on hearsay, you know, the cheap scandals. As soon as I got a different offer, I was out. Admittedly, I can't work as a journalist for the next three years, but believe me, even teaching is better than this horrid business Magnussen practises. I can finally bear my own face in the mirror again."

The more Holmes and Bill find out about Magnussen, the more Bill believes that this man has to be stopped. Insofar, the text-only communication between him and Theodora plays into his hands. He hates to lie into people’s faces.

"And now?" Watson asks. He and Bill have made some kind of truce. It’s on wobbly legs, very fragile and unspoken, but Bill knows how to manoeuvre around difficult people. And he finds Watson’s territorial behaviour rather amusing, especially when it produces some healthy colour on the cheeks of the still peaky Holmes.

"We're waiting," Holmes says.

"For?"

"The move the other parties will make. If they make one."

Watson nods curtly. "And what about my _wife_?" He spits the last word out as if it's poisonous.

"What about her. Nothing about her. You're not involved in this. Leave it to me," Holmes says and flaps a hand, flippant, dismissive.

Watson's lip is pursed and Bill winces. _Holmes, you're not making this easier_ , he thinks. Holmes should have chosen different words, a different gesture. Watson surely thinks Holmes meant it as _it doesn’t matter_ whereas Bill knows it’s meant as _no problem_.

And Bill's right, of course, with his presumption, when Watson's reply turns the mood towards heated.

As the voices rise a notch, Bill moves into the kitchen. He doesn't need to sit in the line of fire and listen how they tatter each other's character verbally. He puts the kettle on for the all-solving-remedy for the British population: tea.

He watches both men: Holmes sitting at the table and Watson standing before him, lecturing and poking his finger at Holmes. Bill's not listening. He has heard the same arguments often enough: arrogant versus mindless, ignorant versus prideful, boastful versus indulgent. The joke is that the descriptions fit both men like gloves.

When the shouting begins, he flees the flat down the stairs into the hall with his mug and his book of crossword puzzles. It's difficult for him to endure these fights and not to act upon his instinct to intervene. He’s tried it before when a different misunderstanding happened between them, and it got worse. He trusts that Watson won't use his fists to win this fight.

He sits down on the chair close to the little table with the lamp. Listening to the muffled shouting, he sighs and starts with his puzzles.

_Chancellor swimming in the sea._

Oh, that's easy. Bismarck.

_Break a leg to enter these._

Stage.

 _Enticement without ap_.

What? Oh, of course. Peal.

Whoever compiled this puzzle has a crude mind. Bill scratches his head with his pen.

_It's Andreas - not mine._

Hmmmmmm... 

Moments pass until-

"Why are you sitting here in the dark, young man!? You've startled me!"

Bill jumps as he hears the female voice beside him and knocks his - thankfully - empty mug with his feet.

"Shit! Sorry, ma'am, I didn't mean to." He bends over to retrieve the mug. "It's just- it's quieter here..." he adds.

"They're at it again, aren't they?" Ms Hudson asks, looks at the ceiling, and then back at him.

"They-" but Bill can't finish his sentence. The shouting upstairs progressed to yelling.

"FOR FUCKS SAKE JOHN, YOU CAN'T EVEN KEEP THE NON-EXISTENCE OF FATHER CHRISTMAS FROM A THREE-YEAR-OLD AS A SECRET, HOW ON EARTH WILL YOU MANAGE TO MAKE HER BELIEVE YOU!"

"I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW THAT KEEPING THINGS A SECRET IS PART OF MY JOB DESCRIPTION, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!"

"THIS INFORMATION IS NOTHING COMPARED TO THE CONFESSIONS OF DISTURBED TEENAGERS OR LAMENTATIONS OF ELDERLY PATIENTS! THIS CAN COST YOU YOUR LIFE!"

"I DON'T CARE! I'M SICK OF NOT KNOWING! I JUST WANT TO GET OVER IT AND HAVE MY LIFE BACK!"

"I UNDERSTAND YOUR POSITION PERFECTLY WELL BUT THIS ISN'T UP FOR DEBATE! JOHN, PLEASE!"

The yelling stops and an eerie silence falls over the house. Ms Hudson and Bill stare at the ceiling. 

Then they hear something falling over. Feet shuffling. 

They follow the sounds along from the living room to the back of the house with their eyes. Then a door slams and they both jump.

Ms Hudson sighs. "Take your mug, dear; I'll make us more tea. I think, the boys will need a while to themselves before you can go back upstairs."

Bill still stares at the ceiling. "Yeah, I think so, too, Ms Hudson," he says warily.

***

Bill is never frightened. Not on the job, not in the most perilous of situations. Maybe that's what makes him so good at what he's doing. His first boss told him that his lack of fear might be his doom, but so far he's survived rather splendidly. He's living off a mix of sincerity and serenity paired with a pinch of humour and recklessness. He's never been an idealist, no. He put his talents through a thorough inspection and decided to use them for good instead of bad. Being fearless is one he's particularly proud of.

So it's a first when he sits in front of this elderly lady and feels a bit unsettled.

Ms Hudson has made them tea and puts a plate with biscuits on the table. Then she sits down across from him and watches him: wise old eyes roam across his face with scrutiny.

She's a cute woman, don't get him wrong, but if she's living with Sherlock Holmes, she’s seen some serious things happen. What’s he supposed to talk about? Bill carefully takes a biscuit from the plate .

He chews and smiles. "Oooooohmmmm, these are good," he says.

It's not a lie. They are good. Fantastic even. He chews and takes another. He lowers his gaze and blows over his tea.

"I'm sorry that I'm intruding," he says because he feels that he should. Apologise.

For- whatever. Anything.

That does the trick. Her face softens, and she folds her hands before her.

"Don't you worry, dear," she says mildly, "I have my knitting, and you can go back to your puzzles." And after a moment she asks, "Are you more a Radio 4 or a Radio 3 person?"

Bill looks up from his puzzle. "Three," he says.

She smiles brightly and switches the radio on.

***

A loud bang of the front door tells Ms Hudson and Bill that although the air is clear now, the problems haven't been solved. He raises his eyebrows and looks at her questioningly.

Ms Hudson sighs. She puts her knitting away and gets up.

"I don't mind them chasing criminals and putting themselves in danger, but when they fight, I worry," she mutters, hiding her sad face behind the door of the fridge.

Bill nods in understanding. She puts bread and butter on the counter, cuts cheese and tomatoes.

"I'm making you two some sandwiches. I'm sure Sherlock hasn't eaten much during the day."

Bill is not going to argue with her. He loves cheese and pickles.

With a plate full of sandwiches and pickles he climbs the stairs.

He enters the flat through the kitchen. The only light comes from the spots under the cupboards. He glances into the dimly lit living room. Holmes stands at the window in the right corner, clad in a dressing gown. Bill puts the plate on the kitchen table and hunts for napkins, glasses, a tray.

Then he carries all through and says, "I bring dinner, sweetheart, I hope you're hungry."

Holmes turns slowly around and looks at him. Bill plasters a broad grin on his face, eyes wide, face slightly tilted, and shows Holmes the tray. But Holmes ignores it.

He looks defeated. Tired.

He looks at Bill and Bill understands. He puts the tray on the table.

Holmes lowers his gaze and strokes with his thumb along the back of the chair. "I'm sorry you had to witness that- that-" Holmes clears his throat and schools his features to aristocratic and sincere, " _frank_ exchange of views."

Bill snorts at that appalling description of the row Ms Hudson and he have witnessed.

"You should invite _Earnest_ to the next round, maybe you'll finally get somewhere."

Holmes huffs a weak, mocking laugh and rolls his eyes.

Bill takes that as a small victory. People like Holmes are not wont to apologise, and Bill’s not going to make it easier for him. Holmes has to earn respect like anyone else.

"My mother used to say, _If you can't be serious, be quiet._ "

Holmes' lips curl at the corner. "I presume you come from a strict family - discipline, obedience and such. Old English virtues."

"Ha! On the contrary. My mother was a Latitudinarian and a single mother. She’d worked for a union. We used to discuss politics over dinner. The wicked witches from fairy tales wore the face of Maggie."

Holmes looks at him in awe. Bill knows what he's thinking.

"Look, you can either fight tooth and nail against the Establishment or enter it and be a part of it changing."

"From the sidelines of the police force?"

"I'm not idealistic enough to be a politician."

"No, I see that. But why the police?"

"I admit, I got a bit sidetracked during uni."

"Why, what happened?"

"Justice happened. The law."

"I still don't see-

"Well, you have to start somewhere," Bill states, level and final.

Holmes is satisfied with that and nods. "I admire your patience," he says.

Bill presses his right palm on his chest and briefly closes his eyes as if Holmes has made him a big compliment.

Holmes snorts. "I think I'm of the same opinion as your mother."

"And you're right in doing so. She was a very wise woman," he says and hands Holmes a sandwich and a napkin.

"You were with Ms Hudson," Holmes says.

Oh, stating the obvious. Bill looks at him. Holmes seems a bit lost for words. Is he embarrassed? No, that cannot be it. Resigned? Possibly. Bill avoids looking around, but he knows that Watson has left and is definitely not coming back. He takes a sandwich and sits down on the sofa.

"Yep," he says before he takes a bite.

"Hm. But you should be more careful. Your cover crumbles around her," Holmes says and inspects his sandwich. He flips it open and stares at the contents, closes it again and finally bites into it.

"Yeah. I know. But believe it or not, I think it doesn't matter. Not with her. All will be fine."

"All right. I just thought I’d let you know," Holmes mumbles around the sandwich.

"Thank you. I appreciate the sentiment."

Holmes' eyebrows meet. "There's no reason to be sarcastic."

"I'm not sarcastic. I just thanked a dear colleague for his professional thoughtfulness."

"Now you're being sarcastic."

"Yeah. A bit."

***

When Bill leaves 221B late that evening, he sends a text to Theodora.

_Watson has left._

The reply comes promptly.

_I know. You'll need to keep a closer eye on Holmes from now on._

_I want a pay raise._

_For babysitting? Dream on._

This time, Bill doesn’t hesitate one second and answers with the middle-finger emoji.

As always, she takes it with humour and sends a kiss back.

***

_Why do you never call?_

_Don't want to catch you on the hop._

_How considerate._

_Nah, being told off directly is less fun._

_And via text is?_

_Of course. I send you an offensive pictogram back and it’s still cute._


	4. A Cry for Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're disgusting."
> 
> Harry comes to Sherlock for help.  
> Yep, she's desperate.

The doorbell rings one December morning at precisely 8:15.

"MS HUDSON!" shouts Holmes from the kitchen where he sits over some files. Since early this morning or late last night - who knows. But he's not wearing more than just a ratty t-shirt, pyjama bottoms and one of his dressing gowns, so either he forgot to go to bed or got up and went straight to work.

"She's out," Bill says simply, nonchalantly sitting in Holmes' chair, reading the paper and not willing to move.

"Then do go downstairs and open the door!" comes the exasperated response from the kitchen.

"Ask nicely and I will," Bill replies and flips a page.

"Pleeeeease," Holmes whines. "Would you be so kind and go downstairs to open the door?"

"Of course. Just for you, darling," Bill purrs and strolls out of the room. He hears Holmes' long-suffering sigh and smiles to himself.

When he opens the door, a short woman stands before him, early forties, sandy shoulder length hair, smartly dressed, large bag over her shoulder. _Barrister_ , he thinks.

"Who the fuck are you?" she snaps, eyebrows scrunched together like an angry caterpillar.

"Father Christmas," he deadpans. "And if you've been a nice girl, I'll let you sit on my lap."

"You're disgusting."

Bill bows. "At your service!"

At this, her face loosens up, and she grins wide. "I bet my brother hates you. He really must. Because I like you and we're never of the same opinion."

"I admit, Watson's not my greatest fan. But I don't expect him to."

"I'm Harry. His sister. Is the master-boffin at home?" 

Bill steps aside and with a grand gesture he shows the way up the stairs. "He will be delighted to see you."

She laughs at that and comes through. "I very much doubt that, but I'm desperate."

Harry enters the kitchen and fires straight away at Holmes without saying a greeting. Apparently, she knows what she's doing.

"You have to do something, Sherlock. Honestly. When he told you that we don't get on - I know he did, he always does - he wasn't exaggerating. It's true. We hate each other. But nevertheless, he's my brother, and I took him in believing it's just for a couple of days, but if I have to endure his _fucking_ judgemental face any longer, it'll be very easy for you to solve his murder, I swear to god!"

She rests her hands on the back of one chair and stares at Holmes.

Holmes, who has stopped mid-writing to watch her outburst, looks at her in his usual way, assessing all details that her appearance reveals, details which Bill has already noticed standing at the door: She had left her home in a hurry - the blouse that was visible under her coat was wrongly buttoned, and her mascara was slightly smudged. Apparently, she had been disturbed while applying it - a person like Harry whose life depends on immaculate appearance would never leave the house in such state. It's obvious to both men that she and Watson must have had a massive row this morning; massive enough that she - disregarding any hatred she presumably harbours against Holmes - found her way straight to Baker Street.

Holmes, still silent, gestures with his pen to his own t-shirt collar, indicating to her her mishap.

Looking down at herself, she lets out a hearty, "Ah fuck," and starts re-buttoning her blouse.

Both men shyly avert their eyes, giving her the privacy she needs to straighten the buttons.

"Would you like something to drink? Cup of tea or coffee?" Holmes asks, staring at the pen he's holding with both hands.

She looks at him, eyes wide with surprise. "Yeah. A cup of tea would be nice."

Bill pulls out a chair for her, and Holmes gets up to fill the kettle and prepares the tea.

Even though she's more relaxed than moments before, she still has bewilderment on her face.

"Please, don't look so flummoxed," Holmes says, as he puts the bags in the mugs. "I don't know what John has told you, but I'm absolutely capable of making a very decent cup of tea."

Not really convinced, she looks at Bill who comes happily to Holmes' defence. Praise where praise is due.

"It's true. I'm not sure what he does differently, but his tea tastes better than even Ms Hudson's," he tells her, nodding in earnest.

She raises her eyebrows and bows her head in acknowledgement.

"But we don't tell her that," Holmes tells Bill. "She will otherwise be offended and stop her continuous supply of biscuits, and we don't want that, do we?"

"Nooooo! Of course not!" Bill shakes his head vigorously. Ms Hudson's biscuits are a delight.

Harry, still not sure of what to make of this scene, breaks this domesticity with a flailing hand and prompts the return to the subject at hand.

"Will you talk to him, Sherlock?"

"I did talk to him. Or at least I tried. But he's not responding." Holmes brings the mugs to the table.

"I know that. But can you try harder? And more directly in his face? Maybe with a bit of force? He understands that!" To punctuate her last suggestions she slams her right fist into the palm of her left.

Bill snorts and Holmes looks offended.

"I'm not going to pummel sense into John!"

"Well, I can't do it myself any more!" She states matter-of-factly, and her head snaps around to look at Bill. "Would you do it?" she asks him, eyebrows raised and hopeful.

He tilts his head and does indeed consider this for a second. Watson still owes him one for the sprained wrist in the crack den. But then - ah, better not. Finally, he shakes his head.

Harry sniffs in frustration and then stares off into the distance, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.

"You're not hiring someone to beat up your brother!" both men say at the same time.

Startled, she looks between them back and forth. "What's this!? Are you some kind of twins?" she barks. "That's creepy enough when he's doing it!" She tilts her head at Holmes and looks furiously at Bill. But he just stares back. With a roll of her eyes, she grabs the mug and sips her tea.

"There are more people like me out there who possess the power of deduction," Holmes tells her and crosses his arms in front of him. "But back to your problem: John refuses to talk to me unless I relent. Which I won't. And before you ask, why or what for, no, I'm not going to tell you, either." He sighs and uncrosses his arms, and looks at his hand. "It's for the best." And with a small tilt of his head, he adds, "Again."

A moment of silence spreads in the kitchen, and they drink their tea, with two of them obviously remembering the events of the past years and the other simply dreaming of Ms Hudson's biscuits.

"But it's not going to be like the last time you left him in the dark, is it?" Harry whispers.

"No. I very much hope not. He knows enough. Just not the details."

"Urgh," Harry groans and crashes backwards in her chair, crossing her arms behind her head. "I hate this woman!"

Both Holmes and Bill stare at her, shock too much for them to school their faces quickly enough.

"What? I'm not stupid, you know? My line of work also consists of putting two and two together!" She lets her arms fall again and crosses them before her. "My whole family hates her. Why do you think why we all skipped the wedding?!"

Holmes considers her a long moment. She's holding his gaze, absolutely not flinching. She must be marvellous in her job.

"What do you do know, Harry?" Holmes asks her finally.

"Just the obvious. Wedding. Honeymoon. Then the articles about you in the papers. Speaking of: Did you really shag that woman? I thought we're fighting for the same team!" she blurts out, but all it earns her is an eye roll. "Aaaaanyway. You were in the hospital and when I tried to call him regarding a family matter, this bi--uhm--this woman told me he was back living with you. But two days later he turns up on my doorstep, fuming like a furnace, without any explanation and daring me to ask questions. So, since then I'm tiptoeing around in my own home and feel like an intruder! He complains about my food, my furniture, my clothes, my lifestyle- it's like being a teenager again! And I haven't had so many one night stands the last years combined as I had now in these last few weeks, just to let off some steam and to have a reason to stay away from home! Imagine that!" She throws up her arms in despair just to fold them seconds later in a praying notion. "So Sherlock, I beg of you, please do something. You're the only one who can transform him back into a functioning human being. Try talking to him again. Solve the problem. Make up with him." She rests her arms, hands still folded, on the table and lets her head hang.

Bill regards her with a considerate amount of sympathy and an awful lot of respect. He would go bonkers, too, with such tyrant at home. He looks at Holmes and questions his taste in companions.

Holmes considers this human bundle of misery before him. He leans forward and puts his hand on hers.

"Harry, I promise, I _will_ solve this problem," he tells her slowly. "But I need a bit more time."

"How much time?" she asks, lifting her head cautiously.

"Until Christmas."

"That's in three weeks."

He nods. "Can you bear with him that much longer?"

She sighs. "I guess?"

He pats her hands. "Thank you. And thank you for taking care of him," he tells her and leans back in his chair.

She narrows her eyes at him but then shrugs. "He's still my brother. Can't kick him out. As much as I want to."

He nods. He grabs his tea and lifts it to drink, but stops short. "I just try to protect him. I thought he knew that. Or at least I hoped he did."

She pokes a finger at him. "I told you. Force. That's the only thing he understands. Not words or good intentions."

"Will you please stop suggesting beating up John, for god's sake!" Holmes barks at her and puts his mug down on the table with a bit too much force, spilling his tea.

After a short element of surprise they all consider the ridiculousness of his reaction briefly before bursting out loud with laughter.

"We can at least keep this option in mind," Bill offers between giggles.

***

When Harry leaves, Bill turns to Holmes.

"Thai boxing or the old fashioned English?"

"I would say, Thai. I'm not an expert, but I think it would be more her style."

"She would have him on the floor in 3 seconds flat."

"Yep. He wouldn't stand a chance against her."

"Wow." Bill scratches his head. "What do you think how long she's been sober? I suppose two years?"

"Hm, give or take."

Bill nods. "Phew. I'm really happy that I'm an only child. They do hate each other pretty much, don't they?"

"Yep. Pretty much." Holmes grabs the mugs and puts them into the sink. "It seems it's a law of nature that siblings hate each other."

"What about your brother?"

"The less about him said, the better."

"Uh-huh. I see."

***

Holmes is in the bathroom so Bill dares to text Theodora.

_What's up with Watson?_

_Not your concern._

_You don't say. But what's up with him?_

_Occupied otherwise. Different detail._

_Good to know that I don't have to worry about another cannon on the loose._

_It's not your job to worry about other’s cannons but to keep a tight rein on yours. But speaking of - what's 9 across of today's crossword?_

Bill checks the newspaper. He grins.

_Ain Jalut. Did the network break down at the office? Do we have to be worried about the nation's safety?_

_Not in the office at the moment. And the service is shite around here._

_Fieldwork? And here I thought you're just a cog in the wheel of 12 Millbank._

_I am a cog. And no._

_85 Albert Embankment?_

Instead of a text, Theodora sends him the monkey with his hands over his mouth as reply.

Yeah, it might be better that he doesn't know.

***

_How long is yours?_

Bill pauses a moment until it finally clicks.

_4ft 5. And Yours?_

_5ft 5. I’m going to win!_

_Dream on, woman!_

The next evenings, Bill knits as if his life depends on it. He’s never been the competitive type - until now. He stops at 6ft 1, confident in his victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Supposedly, Ain Jalut is the first battle where hand cannons were used. It's an interesting read.
>   
> 
> * The addresses Bill lists are those of MI5 and MI6. Obviously too obvious, Bill.
>   
> 
> * I have many headcanons about Harry. In my opinion she's a clever woman who's finally sober and gives all the opposing barristers hell in court. And in reality it's Krav Maga she's doing. So yeah, John couldn't do anything but lose.


	5. The End is Nigh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Day. Finally.

Instead of decorating the flat for Christmas, Holmes and Bill pour over calculations. But Bill isn’t complaining. The season is overrated anyway, especially when you’re single without family and close friends.

"That's too much, Holmes."

"I'm a chemist, I know what I'm doing!"

"And I was the drug dealer, and I've seen shit go bad so trust me when I say it's too much!"

"But this isn't meth or cocaine, it's just a simple sedative!"

"Simple? That's what you call simple? You could put a rhino to sleep with that dose!"

"All right then, you do the calculations."

"With pleasure, darling."

"Can you please not- Urgh, why do I even bother."

"That's it darling, just admit defeat."

With an enormous groan and a harrowing huff and an elaborate screeching of the chair, Holmes gets up and Bill sits down.

He starts over because the chicken-dance Holmes calls handwriting is unsalvageable for him.

"Aaaaaaaah, here's your mistake-"

"Whatever, just do it!" Holmes barks. Bill hunches his shoulders and makes a _whatever_ face.

But Holmes spots it and stalks across the living room, ruffles his hair - dressing gown billowing behind him - and moans loudly.

 _Diva_ comes to mind, but Bill bites his tongue. He knows exactly why Holmes is so unbearable.

Holmes planned his coup for Christmas Day. Holmes invited Watson to spend Christmas with him and his family. Bill included. And Watson’s wife.

“Whatever for?” Bill asked him.

“So that everyone’s accounted for!”

“So you pop off with Watson, and I keep an eye on that woman? Are you mad? She’ll eat me alive!” 

Holmes had looked at him and nodded. “All right. I’ll think of something.”

That something leads to a lovely conversation with Theodora.

_Just a heads up. We’re out shopping for some Christmas presents with the classification B to C._

_Oh lovely! Am I on the list of recipients, too? Can I make a wish?_

_Sure. Something uplifting? Or more relaxing?_

_I could do with something that helps me survive these tedious Christmas parties._

_You mean something that renders you brain-dead but lets you appear super attentive and charming? I’m afraid the side effects would be quite devastating._

_I knew it. What use have drugs anyway?_

_Beats me._

_Keep me posted about what you’re mixing._

_Will do._

Holmes and Bill discussed various drugs, sedatives and soporifics until they both remembered that Watson’s wife is pregnant. Just this mere fact tipped Holmes mood significantly for the rest of the day and hadn't improved since. And at the beginning, Holmes’ irritation was only about Watson's stubbornness: Holmes called, texted and emailed Watson about his Christmas plans - but to no avail.

The pig-headed little soldier simply refused to acknowledge that he has received Holmes' messages.

In a very tiring moment Bill actually considered contacting Theodora, but Holmes showed character and called Harry instead.

 _Message received. When he complains about a sore throat or his hurt ego, tell him it's his own fault. I’ve had enough,_ was her answer.

Bill amused Holmes with his fantasy of how Harry must have _convinced_ Watson about the urgency of Holmes’ messages. The image of Watson bent over a kitchen table, on his back like a ladybug and with Harry's forearm across his throat, was just too good to ignore.

Holmes relaxed a bit and took Watson's continuing silence as sign of his injured pride.

But that was three days ago, and Holmes is back to play the rejected, jealous lover. Holmes' worrying frays on Bill's nerves and he compensates this with humour. So far they've avoided a fight and stuck to nagging and teasing.

Only two more days.

Bill finishes the calculation and watches Holmes' pacing.

"He will be here."

Holmes merely flaps a hand.

"Come on, Holmes - he wants to get rid of that woman. He's definitely keen and therefore he'll be here on Christmas morning, and he will surprise you with a nice gift and a kiss under the mistletoe."

Holmes turns around to snap something offensive but then startles - because Bill doesn't look at him mockingly. No, he's sincere. Bill truly believes what he's just said. Watson will be here, and everything will be all right.

But Holmes isn't convinced. He turns back around, grabs the bow of his violin and swings it around, the whizzing sound sends goosebumps over Bill's arms.

Enough.

"If you don't put that down, get dressed and ready to go in five minutes--"

"What then?"

"--I swear I'm going to use you as a guinea pig for this drug we're mixing, but I'll use your calculations!" Bill raises his voice, and the last words come out biting and harsh.

But it works.

Holmes lets his shoulders, his head and his hands fall. He takes a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," he snaps after a moment of consideration.

Bill watches the sad figure but decides against sympathy.

"Splendid. Now get dressed. I'm hungry. You're buying."

***

_Holmes' plan makes it necessary for Watson to be here on the morning of Christmas Day. Any intel on that?_

_If I'm informed correctly, he will._

_Thank God._

_You're an atheist._

_Yes. But desperate._

_Adorable._

This answer qualifies for not just one but three middle-finger emoticons.

***

On the morning of Christmas Day Bill waits for Holmes to finish breakfast. Holmes lengthens his eating with stories about Christmas past at his parents' house, and Bill encourages it with interjections and interruptions. Neither man is particularly keen to spend more time with demanding people than necessary. They are laughing about Holmes' colourful description of how his brother had slipped on a toy car and had sent the Christmas pudding flying and himself backwards onto the floor - thankfully, the toy car belonged to one of their uncles, so no child was to blame - when the door to the living room opens--

\--and Watson appears standing in the doorframe.

Their laughing stops abruptly. Bill is sure he has even heard Holmes gasp.

Only seconds pass, but they felt like hours.

"John," Holmes manages to say.

Holmes and Watson stare at each other, and Bill realises that this is what authors and filmmakers understand under a loaded atmosphere. He quickly retreats into the kitchen and closes the slide door, very well knowing how ineffective this is. But then his eyes fall upon the small radio on the window sill and switches it on.

Radio 3 delights its listeners with soft Christmas music. Bill allows himself a moment to wallow in old memories while Bach's chorale plays in the background. Although he and his mum had always spent that day alone it always had been a blast - card games, videos, strolls through the empty streets on Christmas Day...

With a heavy sigh, he forces himself back to the reality. He pulls his phone from his pocket and texts Theodora.

_What about Watson's detail?_

_Celebrates Christmas._

_How nice._

_You're single._ _You can keep an eye on them both._ _No need to complain._

_I hope you can enjoy the holiday._

_Ha-ha._

_I’m serious._

_So am I._

Bill considers the meaning when her next message comes in.

_Everything organised?_

_Yes. Everything should go as planned._

_Good. Hear you on the other side._

Bill smiles at the darkening display until he can see his own reflection.

Oh bollocks.

He needs a haircut.

***

The drive to the countryside where Holmes' parents reside is excruciatingly long and gruelling. He doesn't know what happened in the minutes before they departed together, but Watson takes lengths to ignore Bill.

Bill wishes Holmes would let him switch on the radio, but when he tried to reach the button, Holmes slapped his hand away.

Arriving at Holmes’ domicile, Bill registers straight away why Holmes keeps a distance to his family.

The mother a battleaxe, the brother a stuck up, pompous arse--this would drive any sane human away. Only the father is nice and friendly. But when the wicked witch from Oz arrives - Watson’s wife - the mood sours further, Bill didn't deem this as possible, but here he is.

He hates that he has to play the ex-junky-now-apprentice, but needs must. Just a couple of hours and then all will be over and done with.

Although-

He looks over to Holmes in the armchair. Professional distance be damned - he's definitely going to miss this odd fish. Working with him was so easy.

Holmes and Watson are back to their bickering selves when the others fall asleep thanks to Holmes’ and Bill’s concoction. Bill thought Watson would put up more of a fight over their drastic measurements, but instead, he only plays put out for show.

It’s so touching, their game.

Bill sighs in relief when finally the front door falls shut behind them and he hears a helicopter landing and leaving again.

He checks again on the sleepers and calls Theodora.

“All done?”

“Yep, Holmes and Watson are gone, and the rest is asleep. What now.”

“Now you go to Mycroft Holmes and check his waistcoat pocket.”

“I’m not going to pickpocket people for you, it’s Christmas!”

“Do as you’re told. You’ll find a syringe. It contains an anti-sedative. We need Holmes wide awake.”

“What? This pretentious, arrogant tosser? What for!?”

“This pretentious, arrogant tosser, as you’ve put it so nicely, is the lovely man who signs the orders for your salary and expenses.”

Bill stares at the man in question. “You’re kidding, right?”

A snort on the other end tells him that she’s not kidding.

“Wow.”

“Yeah, yeah, put your wondering on pause and do as I say.”

“But why did he drink the punch if he knew it’s spiked?”

“Because both Holmes brothers are mad geniuses and smell a rat before it’s even born. Better safe than sorry. Now, the injection.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Fuck off.”

But they both laugh.

After the injection, Mycroft Holmes comes slowly to his senses. Although he wasn’t gone for long, he has a nice pattern on the left side of his face. He groans.

“Urgh. I cannot fathom how people choose to take drugs for fun,” he moans and leans back in the chair. Bill gives him a glass of water.

“Yeah, I know, incomprehensible.” Bill deadpans. He's glad that he can drop the act.

Holmes sips the water slowly. “Cavalry on its way?”

“Yes, should be here any minute.”

“Good, good.”

And yes, some moments later they hear another helicopter arrive.

Bill helps him into his coat, and on still weak legs Holmes stumbles out the front door and greets a woman in a long, black coat halfway between the house and the helicopter. Bill leans on the doorframe and watches their exchange of words. Then Holmes walks towards the helicopter and the woman walks towards Bill.

The woman has a serious, almost frightening look on her face. Bill blames the cold winter air for his shivering. The woman’s attractive in the way only witches in fairy tales are attractive - beautiful but cruel. Bill tries to stay calm. The woman stops some feet in front of him, frowns, claps her hands once which startles Bill. Suddenly her face softens, brightens, and a smile lovely like a spring morning appears. Bill would describe the whole transformation as spine-tingling and definitely unsettling.

“I’m here for the gift-giving. Where’s my scarf?” she asks sweetly and tilts her head.

Bill huffs out a weak laugh. “Theodora?”

“Yep. That’s me,” she says and steps into the house.

Bill assumed that Theodora was going to stay the great unknown, that they were going to say goodbye to each other the same way they met - via telephone. Having her here in person makes him nervous. He’s given her insolent replies so many times over the last weeks that he wonders how he should behave now. She’s his superior, right?

Bill watches her barking orders into her phone.

“McKenna, you didn’t get lost in the desert, how can you get lost in rural England with a street sign every mile?!--Well, then you should have let Preston drive.--Yes, past that crossing and the next right.--Right, McKenna, not further ahead.--Yes, the junction is hidden…”

Bill grins to himself while he prepares tea. The family wakes up slowly, and he’s glad that he’s not alone to tackle their rage over having been drugged and Christmas dinner spoilt. And indeed - the glaring match between Theodora and Watson’s wife is glorious. Ms Holmes’ ranting is brief after she hears that both her sons are involved in this conundrum.

“Well, I hope they know what they’re doing. I have told them after the last time - I don’t want to have political crises being brought into my house! And then on Christmas. I bet the PM enjoys his meal in peace and quiet!”

When Theodora received a call from Mycroft Holmes telling her that neither he nor Watson nor his brother are going to come back to the house, Ms Holmes orders all people present to sit down at the dinner table - she’s not willing to let the expensive roast go to waste.

McKenna and Preston sit down and look as if they wish themselves back to whatever war zones they’ve recently been in. Watson’s wife talks to Holmes’ father and Theodora listens to Ms Holmes’ stories about her sons - she’s possibly collecting ammunition for her next salary negotiations. Bill simply enjoys the delicious meal.

They leave hastily after dessert and rush back to London where they drop off Watson’s wife at her home. Theodora and Bill watch her unlocking the front door and vanishing behind it without a _thank you_ or a _good-bye_.

“What a ghastly woman,” Theodora says into the silence and shares a meaningful look with Bill. He nods.

McKenna looks over his shoulder. “Ma’am? Where to?”

“Office. I have my car parked there.”

McKenna and Preston leave Theodora and Bill in the car park.

“And now?” Bill dares to ask.

“Now I have to debrief you.

"You're not needed anywhere else?"

No? It's still Christmas. And I could do with a pint. How about you?”

“Wouldn't say no. But I'm not sure if a pub is the right place for a debriefing. Even on Christmas Day.”

“Ooooh, yes, you're right. Well, we'll have to go to my place, then.”

Bill's eyebrows raise up to meet his hairline. Theodora laughs.

“Come on, we need to stop along the way, I haven't been home in days and the fridge will be empty.”

***

Bill stares at the ceiling.

There's bloody stucco on that fucking ceiling.

And a 12-light chandelier with rows of crystals.

His head is bedded on a soft pillow, and his body rests on Egyptian cotton.

He imagines some poor sod standing for hours on a ladder polishing every single one of these crystals. What a ridiculous job is that? But then he remembers that someone had to remove the leaves from the trees in New Palace Yard in Westminster by hand one autumn, so maybe polishing crystals isn’t as bad as he thinks.

"You're not a simple cog, are you?" he asks in the direction of the chandelier.

Rustling on his left tells him that his question was heard.

"No, not simple. I would say..." Theodora trails off. "I know nothing about the mechanics of wheels or a gearbox," she finishes.

Bill smirks. That's a language he speaks.

"Well, there's the clutch you have to step on to get going. Are you the clutch?"

"Nah, I wouldn't go so far. That's someone else."

"What about the gear shift? You have to move it to choose the gears. Are you the gear shift?"

"Hummm. No, That's again someone else. But to conclude this guessing game before I have to eliminate you, just think of me being important enough to be paid so handsomely that I can shop at Waitrose, Selfridges and Liberty to entertain and bed my conquests accordingly."

Bill turns towards her. She smirks and this smirk is the most attractive smirk he has ever seen. He smiles.

"I've never been to Waitrose before. Do you drag every conquest shopping?"

"Yep. The arrogant snoots have to accompany me to Liberty, the showoffs to Selfridges."

"And what kind of blokes do you take to Waitrose?"

"I wouldn't know. You're the first who's been allowed to watch me buy cheese and beer."

Bill laughs and levels his gaze back to the ceiling. He's too much of a realist to take her statement to heart or as a boost for his ego. He checks the clock on the bedside table. He should be off before this gets weird.

A hand falls on his chest and a soft finger circles his jugular notch, then down his breastbone and back upwards.

"Stay," she whispers. "I have all the ingredients for a proper breakfast." 

The finger wanders slowly along his throat over his Adam's apple to his chin to his lips. The touch is feather light, almost tickling. Bill suppresses the urge to swallow too hard. He turns again to face her, and her hand rests now on his cheek, her thumb strokes along his cheekbone and her fingers curl at his neck.

The smirk is gone but her face is bright and her smile genuine.

"I know. I've seen you choosing the baked beans and the eggs," he replies. He wants to make sure that she really means what she’s said.

"Hmmm," she murmurs, "so you know how rude it would be if you scarper right now and leave me alone with all the good--"

But before she could finish her sentence, Bill follows his instinct, leans over and kisses the words out of her mouth. Theodora’s fingernails drag along his nape into his hair and with her other hand she pulls him closer, fully on top of her.

This kiss is deeper, less frenzied than the kisses from before - after the de-briefing became talking became teasing became flirting became discarded clothing on the floor and ended on the soft mattress of Theodora's bed.

Theodora sighs and Bill takes a deep breath. Her hand trails down his back, and she grabs his arse, tilts her hips upward to meet his, eager for friction and asking for more. He leans on his forearm and with the hand of his other arm he strokes along her temple down her neck to her shoulder to go further until he reaches the back of her thighs. She hooks her legs around his waist to close the gap between them as Bill's lips wander from hers along her jaw until he reaches her ear and the soft spot behind it. She stretches her neck to allow him more access; her nails scratch along his spine. She smells heavenly.

"Besides," she breathes, "I've collected all the crossword puzzles from the last months I was unable to solve. I'd be grateful if you'd finish them before you leave..."

But instead of replying, Bill bites her neck right under her jaw in retaliation and sucks a bruise that will mark her for the next couple of days.

Childish?

Yes, of course! 

But Theodora laughs nonetheless.

***

"What. In Gods name. Is that?!"

Holmes' flabbergasted, shocked face is a delight to sore eyes. Bill is sure his own grin is so bright that spring comes early this year.

"That, my poor darling in confinement, is a scarf,” he says and waves with the end of the offending garment. “Handcrafted by a phenomenal, brilliant woman who took me by storm, swept me off my feet and brings joy and light into my bleak life."

The appearing signs of disgust on Holmes' face make Bill laugh just even more.

"Oh for God’s sake. You sound ridiculous! Worse than the- the-" looking for words Holmes' hands flap around like drunken birds until he finally finds something halfway fitting, "prosaic recountings on John's blog!"

"Oi, come on, his writing is not as bad as you make it out to be. He paints a very realistic image of you."

"OK, that's it, visiting time is over, you can go now," Holmes says and turns to the window.

It speaks volumes about their relationship that Bill knows exactly how to interpret those words. So he sits down on a chair by the cluttered desk. A cursory glance tells Bill more than he needs - no - is allowed to know. At least the food in Eastern Europe is great.

"Months planning and plotting-" Bill starts and Holmes' head snaps around, "-but that's not an outcome we could have thought of even if we'd spent years preparing."

"To whom did you speak?"

"Watson. He told me what happened."

Holmes scrunches his face together. "He was not at liberty to tell you that."

Bill shrugs. "He did it anyway."

"My brother will be displeased."

"Holmes didn't seem displeased when he did."

Holmes presents him a third time with his disgusted and surprised face. It's Bill's lucky day; it seems.

"Mycroft was present?"

"Sure. After months of good work, it was time to talk to my boss." But Holmes just stares at him. "Oh come on, you knew I was hiding something from you."

"Yeah, of course, I did. But I never thought that you could be- wait- it wasn't Mycroft who recruited you, was it?"

Bill shakes his head.

"The woman you've met-"

Bill nods.

Holmes sits down on his bed and thinks hard, considering the lines on his forehead and his narrowed eyes. Bill rests his head on his fist and waits for Holmes to connect the dots. But then Holmes squinches his eyes shut, his lips are a thin line, and he shakes his head violently.

"It doesn't matter!" Holmes barks out and grips his knees until his knuckles whiten.

Bill ponders that it might be that this is the first time he's of the same opinion as Holmes. Holmes takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. There's vulnerability to them, and Bill knows what Holmes' going to ask.

"How's he doing? John?"

Holmes rubs his hands along his thighs. It's a nervous gesture. Holmes is aware he's doing it, and Bill is aware why. Bill forces himself to imagine being in Holmes' shoes and it instantly fills him with dread and despair. He gulps down the lump in his throat, and he even manages to smirk a little. Holmes doesn't need sympathy.

"You know, for a soldier he's astonishingly clever and for a doctor he's remarkably tough. You should never underestimate him."

"Now I know." Holmes continues to rub his thighs. "What are you doing next?"

"I consider quitting my job. Or a transfer."

"Honestly?"

Bill nods.

"The woman...?"

Bill nods again. He waits for mocking words from Holmes. But they don't come. Instead, he sees a different emotion flicker over Holmes' face: envy.

It's difficult to talk when there's nothing you can talk about. Bill doesn't dare to ask what's going to happen to Holmes and Holmes can't be eager to hear about Bill's happiness. Bill thinks about the conversation he had with Watson and Holmes' brother. They both appeared so confident, so sure of themselves only people with a watertight plan are allowed to be, that Bill was convinced they do indeed have a plan. But seeing Holmes in this state, he's not so convinced anymore. Was he mistaken? But that would mean-

-Bill cannot finish this thought. The door opens and Holmes' brother enters.

"My apologies, Sergeant, but Sherlock has to pack his bags. He's leaving soon."

Bill looks from him back to Holmes. The emotions have vanished from Holmes face and arrogance has taken their place. If they need this show, so be it. Bill gets up and Holmes with him. They meet in the middle of the room and shake hands. Silently. Then Holmes’ gaze drops to Bill's scarf. He touches the end of it with the tip of his fingers, feels the wool and the pattern.

"Delicate garments like these don't deserve a spin in the washing machine. The dry cleaner should know how to handle it. But it would be better if you wash it by hand."

It's not the weirdest farewell he's received so far but the second most affectionate, following his mother's _Go, do your worst and fuck shit up_ when he left home on his first day as police officer.

As his mother was telling him to do good and avoid evil, Holmes tells him to take very good care of what he's just won. Holmes might be a conceited cock, but he's not as selfish and ignorant as he wants people to believe.

Bill nods a goodbye to Holmes’ brother and he could swear he’s seen a conspiratorial gleam in his eyes.

Mad geniuses, indeed. Better to get out of here.

***

"Do you have clearance to be in this part of the building, mister?!" barks an angry and very male voice behind Bill, and startled to the core he swiftly turns around to find-

-a grinning Theodora.

"That was- uh- creepy, my love," Bill stammers.

Theodora’s grin widens, brightens, and Bill’s world tilts back to normal.

"Part of the training," she says in her soft, lovely voice and plays with the buttons of his coat. "I can do many impersonations, politicians, actors..."

Bill takes her hand in his and kisses it. "I’d love to see all of them, but please, as long as you keep this talent out of the bedroom-"

"Why? Not fond of role-play?" Theodora snickers, flicks his nose and flips the end of his scarf onto his back with unlawful speed.

"I'd rather not imagine Theresa May when I go down on you, my love," Bill says and snatches the end of her own scarf, moss-green and soft.

"Ooh, Theresa's tricky. Weird speech pattern. But I can do a very convincing Ma--hmmmmp--hmmmmm--" is all Theodora manages to say until Bill decides to stop her talking before she can paint a horrid image into his brain. Pulling her close by her scarf and kissing her was the only option that sprang quickly to his mind. 

But honestly, it was the best option, too. Bill releases her scarf and pushes his hand into her hair and sneaks the other around her waist. She throws both her arms around his neck and deepens the kiss, taking over the lead as she’s wont to do.

Bill absolutely loves it.

It speaks for the people working in this building that they take no offence at their snogging and circumnavigate around them on their way out for lunch as if the two were nothing more than a minor obstacle.

But it speaks even louder for the woman in his arms who kisses him so fervently, so earnestly, without giving a single damn about what people might think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm convinced John and Mycroft are in cahoots together.  
> And no, when I wrote this I didn't think it possible that Theresa May is going to be the next PM.


End file.
